章 411: 0410 Approaching
Bryan felt as if he had returned to the old days, the days when he would run all over Europe to complete commissions.
Although the trip to Albania had been fruitless, it didn't mean this journey was meaningless. On the contrary, he had gained a lot. The large tree hollow in the primeval forest was clearly where Voldemort, who had once terrorized the British wizarding world, had been hiding after losing his powers.
For over a decade, Voldemort had been lurking in that forest, but now he had left, and his whereabouts were unknown.
Truth be told, Bryan cared little for Voldemort's current location. He understood all too well the futility of hunting down the weakened dark wizard before they had successfully identified and destroyed all of his Horcruxes.
But Bryan still used the aura on that snake scale to track him down.
He could ignore whatever tricks Voldemort was up to, but....
In his previous conversation with Dumbledore, Dumbledore's intentions had been clear: he was prepared to allow Voldemort to regain his powers. In their earlier discussions, they had almost confirmed that Voldemort would use Harry. This meant that, at this stage, Voldemort was likely plotting how to get his hands on Harry.
What Bryan cared more about was why Cliodna, that woman, had gotten involved with Voldemort.
Although he had suffered at her hands, Bryan knew well that this Druid priestess wasn't an evil person. On the contrary, because of her faith, she should be seen as a kind person welcomed by others. Voldemort, on the other hand, was called the most evil wizard in history. The two were completely different.
Yet, somehow, against all logic and reason, their paths had converged. This unexpected union filled Bryan with a sense of foreboding. He couldn't shake the feeling that events were spiraling rapidly out of control, leaving him powerless to intervene.
At the same time, an unsettling notion took root in his mind - the idea that perhaps all of this was predestined, that the wheel of fate was turning along a predetermined track, and his presence here was merely another gear in the grand machinery of destiny.
Dumbledore certainly wouldn't want him to confront Voldemort now, but Bryan couldn't pretend not to see this. He had to investigate and find out what circumstances had led Voldemort and Cliodna, two people from completely different worlds, to join forces.
They hadn't chosen Apparition, the most convenient way to leave the Albanian forest, but instead took remote paths far from the mundane world.
After careful consideration, Bryan guessed that Voldemort's current physical condition must still be incredibly fragile, leaving him unable to withstand the intense pressure and magical strain that Apparition would place on his weakened form. This realization brought a glimmer of hope to Bryan's troubled mind. If Voldemort was indeed this vulnerable, it would make the task of tracking him considerably easier.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of trekking through the unforgiving wilderness - sleeping under the stars, foraging for food- Bryan emerged from the dense forest into the land of human habitation. For the first time since beginning his pursuit, the faint magical aura emanating from the snake scale led him to a settlement populated by people.
The village sprawled across a series of gently rolling hills, surrounded by vast stretches of farmland. A narrow, winding road snaked its way through the countryside, eventually leading to a town that lay dozens of miles in the distance, barely visible as a smudge on the landscape.
As Bryan crested the final hill, the setting sun painted the sky in a breathtaking array of vibrant oranges, deep crimsons, and soft purples. The fiery orb slowly sank towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the tranquil landscape and bathing everything in a warm, golden glow.
Standing on this elevated vantage point, his keen eyes scanning the terrain before him, Bryan's gaze was drawn to a once-grand building that stood proudly atop the highest hill in the vicinity. Though time and neglect had clearly taken their toll on the structure, there was no denying its former splendor. Even in its dilapidated state, it exuded an air of faded nobility and long-forgotten importance.
Little Hangleton.
A rusty sign at the village entrance told him where he was.
As Bryan stood motionless at the village entrance, his eyes fixed on the ancient sign, the relative silence of the countryside was suddenly shattered by the approaching rumble of machinery. A battered farm vehicle, its engine clanking and sputtering in protest, lumbered up the road behind him. The driver, clearly impatient to reach his destination, leaned on the horn, producing a harsh blast that echoed across the hills.
Startled from his trance by the unexpected noise, Bryan turned to face the oncoming vehicle. He offered an apologetic smile to the weather-worn farmer who sat hunched behind the wheel, then quickly stepped to the side of the road, allowing the cumbersome machine to pass.
As the last rays of sunlight began to fade from the sky, Bryan realized that the hour had grown late. The time for the evening meal was fast approaching, and his stomach growled in anticipation, reminding him that it had been far too long since his last proper meal.
All around him, the villagers who had worked in the nearby fields throughout the long day were now hurrying back home for dinner. The air was filled with the sound of cheerful chatter as friends and neighbors exchanged pleasantries and discussed the events of the day. Occasionally, a burst of loud laughter would erupt from one group or another.
It wasn't long after Bryan had entered the outskirts of the village that he began to notice something distinctly unusual about the behavior of its inhabitants. As a stranger in these parts, he had expected his arrival to garner some degree of attention from the locals. What he had not anticipated, however, was the intensity and nature of their scrutiny.
Almost without exception, every villager who caught sight of Bryan would immediately stop whatever they had been doing, and stare at him intently Their eyes were mostly filled with vigilance and wariness, with a hint of curiosity. After he passed by, these villagers would gather and whisper among themselves, pointing at his back.
After enduring this bizarre treatment for some time, Bryan decided that a more direct approach might be necessary if he hoped to unravel the mystery of the villagers' strange behavior. Pausing in the middle of the dusty road, he turned his attention to a young girl who was busily collecting laundry from a clothesline in a nearby yard.
"Excuse me, miss—"
The young girl was completely caught off guard by Bryan's sudden address. She was so startled that she almost dropped the clothes in her hands and darted into her house. But when her eyes caught the handsome face of the gray-haired young man, she suppressed her fear and, blushing, spoke tremblingly.
"Oh, what?" she stammered, her fingers clutching tightly at the fabric in her arms.
"I was wondering if there's a place to eat nearby?"
Noticing the girl's lingering nervousness, Bryan decided to offer a bit more context, hoping to put her at ease. He bowed slightly, maintaining his polite demeanor, and pointed down at his mud-caked shoes. "I've walked a long way today, perhaps it's time to stop and reward my stomach with a hot meal—"
"Oh!" the girl exclaimed, her initial fear giving way to a mixture of understanding and shy interest. She took a deep breath, one hand moving to rest over her rapidly beating heart, and then pointed Bryan in a specific direction. "There... there's a pub called The Hanged Man that provides food and drinks for travelers,"
Armed with this information, Bryan set off in search of the establishment. It took him roughly ten minutes of wandering through the winding streets of Little Hangleton before he found himself standing before the village's sole pub.
The Hanged Man was a short, weathered building that had clearly seen better days. Its front was marred by peeling paint and crumbling masonry, while a creaking sign bearing the pub's grim name swung lazily in the evening breeze.
As Bryan pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, he was immediately struck by the pub's gloomy interior. A thick layer of dust seemed to coat every surface, from the scarred bar top to the mismatched collection of tables and chairs that were haphazardly scattered throughout the room. The air was heavy with the acrid smell of stale tobacco smoke and spilled ale.
Given the hour, Bryan had expected to find the pub bustling with activity as villagers gathered to relax after a long day's work. Instead, the place was eerily quiet, with only a handful of patrons occupying the barstools near the far end of the room. These men, clearly deep in their cups, were muttering incoherently to themselves or to no one in particular.
Bryan could be sure that something had happened in this village because when he pushed open the door and entered the pub, still surveying the decor of the hall, those drunken men suddenly sobered up quite a bit and eyed him warily.
"Welcome—"
Although business was poor, the nearly bald pub owner's greeting was stiff and not at all welcoming,
"Esteemed guest," he continued, the honorific sounding more like an accusation than a courtesy, "what do you need?"
"Phew—"
Choosing to ignore the less-than-welcoming reception, Bryan made a show of brushing the dust from his travel-worn clothing. He inhaled deeply, then released a long, weary sigh.
"Honestly, right now I'd rather get something to eat to appease my growling stomach. Of course, if you happen to have any Ogden's Old Firewhisky, I wouldn't mind a few sips—"
"Ogden's Old Firewhisky?"
The pub owner and his few familiar customers looked at each other in confusion, not understanding what this young stranger was talking about.
Realizing his slipup, Bryan quickly retreated. "Oh, please don't mind what I said—" he interjected, flashing an apologetic smile as he set his battered suitcase down on the nearest table. "I simply need something to eat. Anything you have available will do just fine."
After a moment's hesitation, the pub owner went to the kitchen, leaving Bryan alone with the suspicious gazes of the other customers boring into the back of his skull. He pretended not to notice their scrutiny, instead focusing his attention on the worn tabletop before him.
Three minutes later, the pub owner brought two ham sandwiches to Bryan on a chipped plate, said "Enjoy your meal," and quickly ran back to the bar.
Bryan pretended not to notice the drunken customers staring at the back of his head non-stop. He buried his head in the sandwiches on the plate. Perhaps because he was wolfing them down too quickly, Bryan choked after just one bite of the second sandwich. He coughed violently several times, his face turning red.
"Cough, cough, sorry—" Bryan managed to sputter between gasps, waving frantically towards the bar. "Could I get something to drink?"
A glass of sweet liquor was hastily provided, and Bryan gratefully gulped it down. As the burning liquid coursed down his throat, he felt his breathing ease and his complexion gradually return to normal. He patted his chest, taking a few deep breaths to fully recover from his near-choking experience. As he did so, Bryan couldn't help but notice that the other patrons in the pub had abandoned all pretense of discretion and were now openly staring at him, their postures tense and guarded.
A wry chuckle escaped Bryan's lips as he surveyed the room. The absurdity of the situation – a stranger choking on a sandwich while being watched like a dangerous criminal – was not lost on him. Deciding that a direct approach might be the best way to address the palpable tension in the air, Bryan cleared his throat and said to the pub owner.
"Can I ask you something, sir?"
"What?"
The owner's fist on the bar suddenly tightened, and he responded vigilantly.
"Just a simple question—" Bryan shrugged, nodding towards the wary customers, "I was wondering, I mean, I've been to many places in my travels, but I've never encountered a village quite as... cautious... towards outsiders as Little Hangleton. Is this some sort of local custom or tradition I'm unaware of?"
"No—"
Before the pub owner could speak, one of the outspoken customers among those sitting together said,
"It's because of old Frank!"
Then this villager was immediately warned with a glare from the pub owner.
"Old Frank?"
Bryan's smile became even more friendly,
"Why not tell me more about this Mr. Frank? Ah, sorry, I've been in the wild for too long and have forgotten my manners. Barkeeper, please give each of these kind gentlemen a glass of sherry, on my tab!"
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章 412: 0411 Frank Bryce
Ten minutes later, Bryan was already sitting at a table with the local villagers in the tavern, and several more empty glasses had appeared on the table in front of them.
"So that's how it is—" Bryan wiped the sweet wine from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve and said with interest, "You were wary of me because old Frank died under mysterious circumstances, and the police told you to watch out for strangers around the village recently."
Among the group of villagers, sat Dott, the oldest one with completely white hair, He let out a weary sigh and said.
"Who could have guessed?" His voice trembled with emotion, "It was just yesterday afternoon, that I caught sight of old Frank. There he was, hunched over his beloved garden, tending to the vibrant blooms he so cherished. Little did I know that fleeting glimpse would be the last time I'd lay eyes on the old codger." Dott paused, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Truth be told, Frank's life wasn't exactly blessed with good fortune, was it?"
"Aye, poor old fellow," the bartender said. Perhaps because Bryan had been generous, buying them many drinks, he no longer saw Bryan's young face as that of a murderer.
"When Frank was just a lad, no older than you are now," he gestured towards Bryan with the glass, "he answered the call of duty and marched off to war. He even lent a hand around here when times were tough, never asking for anything in return."
Bryan maintained an attentive posture as the villagers reminisced about Frank who was usually ignored but now pitied after death. Sensing a lull in the conversation, Bryan seized the moment to interject,
"Is it possible," he began, his brow furrowed in thoughtful consideration, "that Mr. Frank's passing was simply the result of natural causes? I mean, from what you're all saying, this Mr. Frank was quite old, wasn't he?"
Bryan's question plunged the tavern into silence. The drunks stared at him, clearly indicating they had juicier gossip to share, but only if he paid the price.
"Excuse me, boss—" The bartender behind the counter was already ready to act. The moment Bryan waved his hand, he brought over several glasses of sherry to the table.
Old Dott, his rheumy eyes now twinkling with anticipation, didn't hesitate for a moment. With a dexterity that contradicted his old age, he grasped the fragile stem of his glass and, in one fluid motion, tilted it back. The sherry disappeared down his throat with a resounding slurp, leaving not a drop behind. After smacking his lips with undisguised satisfaction, savoring the lingering sweetness on his palate, Dott leaned in close to Bryan.
"It's not as simple as you might think, young man," Dott began, his voice barely above a whisper yet carrying easily in the hushed tavern. "The police, they're at their wits' end, you see. They've examined Frank's body from top to bottom, inside and out, and couldn't find a blessed thing amiss. Not a mark, not a scratch, nothing to suggest foul play." He paused dramatically, his eyes darting around the room as if checking for eavesdroppers before continuing. "But when they carried him out of the Riddle House—"
"Sorry," Bryan interjected abruptly, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the rough wooden table, and fixed Dott with an intense gaze. "Whose house did you say?"
"The Riddle House," Dott repeated, a note of excitement creeping into his voice. "You must have laid eyes on it, surely? That grand old mansion perched atop the hill, looking down on our humble village like some brooding giant."
Dott's wrinkled hands waved wildly as he spoke, nearly upsetting his empty sherry glass. "That house, it's changed hands more times than I can count over the years, but originally? Oh, originally it belonged to the Riddle family. Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, they were, and their son, Tom Riddle - a right ne'er-do-well if ever there was one. They all met their end in that very house, fifty years ago come next month. Just like old Frank, they were frightened to death, the lot of them, without so much as a scratch or bruise to show for it."
The bartender, who had been hovering nearby, eager to contribute to the conversation, chimed in. "The police, they've got long memories 'round these parts. That case from all those years back? It's still fresh in their minds, like it happened yesterday. That's why they're dead certain Frank's passing wasn't no accident or act of nature. It's got to be murder, plain and simple."
Bryan nodded imperceptibly, taking a measured sip of his drink. The amber liquid swirled in his glass, catching the dim light of the tavern as he contemplated the information. "That's understandable,"
Suddenly, one of the other drinkers at the table - a man whose cheeks were flushed with the warmth of alcohol and whose eyes sparkled with the need to contribute - burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. "You've left out something crucial!" he exclaimed, his words tumbling out in an urgent rush. It was clear that he felt upset, as the majority of the tale had been recounted by old Dott and the bartender, leaving him with precious little to add.
"When the Riddle family died back then," the man continued, his voice rising with excitement, "old Frank was the only soul still drawing breath in that godforsaken house. Naturally, the police thought he must be the one behind it all. But Frank, he swore up and down he was innocent as a newborn babe." The man paused, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The only thing - the only thing, mind you - that Frank told the police was that on the very day of the incident, he caught sight of a small boy lurking near the house. A lad no one in the village had ever clapped eyes on before. Can you believe it? The police, they thought he was spinning yarns, making it all up!"
With this revelation, the group erupted into a cacophony of heated debate. Each villager seemed to have their own firmly held opinion on the matter, and they were not shy about expressing it. Some argued passionately for the existence of this mysterious boy, their voices rising as they speculated on whether he could have been the perpetrator behind the Riddle family's demise. Others scoffed at the notion, dismissing it as the ramblings of a frightened old man.
The debate took a darker turn as some speculated a chilling theory - could this same boy, now a man grown, have returned after all these years to silence old Frank once and for all? The tavern buzzed with the electric current of speculation and fear.
Throughout the energetic discussion, Bryan maintained a polite smile, nodding at appropriate intervals and appearing to listen intently. Yet, to a keen observer, there was a disconnect between his outward demeanor and the look in his eyes. Those eyes, usually sharp and attentive, now held a hint of cold indifference.
Inwardly, Bryan's mind was racing, processing the information. He hadn't expected that Voldemort, after all his extensive travels and nefarious deeds, would have retreated to the scene of his earliest crimes. There was no doubt in Bryan's mind that the former owners of the hilltop mansion had met their end at Voldemort's hands.
Tom Riddle.
The name echoed in Bryan's thoughts. Voldemort, like Bryan himself, had been an orphan. But when Voldemort had finally uncovered the truth about his father's family, instead of seeking reconciliation, he had chosen a path of cold-blooded murder.
Bryan found himself unable to muster much interest in pondering the complex web of love, hate, and vengeance that must have driven Voldemort to such extreme actions. While their backgrounds shared some similarities, Bryan's circumstances were unique, setting him apart in ways the others could never understand. Voldemort, on the other hand, had chosen the most radical and violent course of action available to him.
Abruptly, Bryan steered the conversation in a new direction, asking a question that seemed, on the surface, unrelated to the current discussion. "Has old Frank been laid to rest yet?"
The question caught the villagers off guard, momentarily silencing their heated debate. They exchanged puzzled glances before the bartender cleared his throat and responded.
"The police, they took Frank's body away for further examination," he explained, his brow furrowed in concentration as he recalled the details. "They haven't returned him to us yet. I reckon they're still trying to get to the bottom of what caused Frank's death, but if you ask me, they're on a fool's errand. It was the same back then, with the Riddles. No answers, just more questions."
Bryan nodded silently, absorbing this information without further comment.
As the night wore on and the villagers' tales became increasingly embellished and far-fetched, Bryan found his thoughts drifting to the Riddle House itself. To be fair, he had to admit, it was indeed a respectable and luxurious mansion. Its location, set apart from the village and perched atop a hill, offered both solitude and a impressive view of the surrounding wilderness.
Under different circumstances, Bryan might have been tempted to approach the current owner with an offer to purchase the property. Its grandeur and isolation held a certain appeal. However, two factors gave him pause: first, he already had secure accommodations elsewhere, and second - perhaps more significantly - this was Voldemort's ancestral home.
Later that night, long after the villagers had stumbled home to their beds and the tavern had fallen silent, Bryan made his way to the Riddle House. The moon hung low and full in the sky, casting an eerie silvery light over the landscape and throwing the mansion's imposing silhouette into sharp relief against the star-studded sky.
As Bryan approached the house, a glowing orb materialized in the air before him, casting a soft, ethereal light that illuminated the grand staircase leading to the second floor. The steps, once polished and gleaming, were now covered in a thick layer of dust, broken only by a chaotic array of footprints. These, Bryan guessed, must have been left by the police in their frantic rush upstairs upon receiving news of Frank's death.
Not wishing to complicate matters by leaving his own tracks, Bryan had been levitating since the moment he entered the house. Now, as he approached the police cordon strung across the staircase, he simply increased his floating height, easily clearing the barrier.
With a sudden burst of speed, Bryan accelerated upwards, crossing the distance to the second floor in the blink of an eye. The whoosh of displaced air was the only sign of his passing.
Bryan didn't waste time surveying his surroundings. The villagers and police had already thoroughly examined the house, which meant any wizards involved in recent events had long since departed. Instead, he floated directly towards the room where, according to the villagers, the body of Frank Bryce had been discovered.
Identifying the correct room was simple- the Muggle police had erected another separate cordon across its threshold.
Bryan's mind flashed back to the explanation he had heard in the tavern. On the night of Frank's death, all had seemed normal in the sleepy village. A handful of the usual drunkards had drunk away the hours at the pub, drinking until the bartender, mindful of the late hour, had finally shooed them out shortly after midnight. These drunkards were making their way home when something extraordinary caught their attention.
A brilliant green light had suddenly erupted from a second-floor window of the Riddle House sending a shiver down the spines of all who witnessed it.
Accompanying the green light was a thunderous boom, as if something had exploded.
Spurred on by liquid courage and an irresistible curiosity, these drunkards had cast aside their fear and charged up the hill, intent on investigating the source of the mysterious light and sound. It was then that they had stumbled upon the lifeless body of old Frank.
The police were deeply skeptical of these drunkards's testimony because after carefully examining the scene, they found no signs that anything had been disturbed, nor any old objects damaged in an explosion. No, the police suspected there had been no explosion or green light at all, and these idle troublemakers had probably just seen a flash of lightning.
'It had been cleaned up hastily—'
Traces of magic are not easy to conceal. The room's arrangement was unchanged from half a century ago—the old fireplace, the dusty armchairs, the creaky wooden floor, the ancestral oil paintings on the walls riddled with wormholes—everything, from a Muggle's perspective, seemed perfectly normal.
But to Bryan's eyes, there were clear signs that magic had been used to repair things.
It was obvious to Bryan that someone had attempted to repair and conceal evidence of magical activity, but they had done so hastily, leaving traces that his eyes could easily discern.
Outside the window, the overgrown lawn was bathed in moonlight. The uninvited breeze that had invaded the mansion sang a bloody ballad.
Bryan took out his wand and traced complex, spell patterns in front of him.
Gradually, the shimmering grains of light arranged themselves into ordered patterns, forming ghostly images that hung suspended in the air. These ethereal pictures flickered and shifted, replaying scenes from the recent past like some sort of magical, three-dimensional film.
Bryan retreated to the far wall, his back pressed against the peeling wallpaper as he observed the unfolding spectacle with keen interest. The play of light and shadow cast by the magical reconstruction threw his sharp-edged profile into stark relief, highlighting the cold, stern set of his features. His eyes, reflecting the dancing lights, seemed to glow with an inner fire as he absorbed every detail of the scenes playing out before him.
As abruptly as it had begun, the magical replay came to an end. The glowing motes of light scattered and faded, leaving the room once again shrouded in moonlit gloom. Everything returned to its previous state of dusty abandonment, as if the extraordinary display had never occurred.
In the wake of the fading magic, a single voice broke the oppressive silence of the abandoned mansion.
"Bertha Jorkins."
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